


Springtime in the Garden

by okapi



Category: The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
Genre: F/M, Gardens & Gardening, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Spring, Sweet, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-10 11:52:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19502863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Mary and Dickon celebrate springtime in the garden.Sweet PWP.





	Springtime in the Garden

**Author's Note:**

> For the 2019 DW Corsets and Lemons kink meme. The prompt was: _Mary and dickon celebrate spring in the garden._

For weeks, Mary had smelled it in the air, nice and fresh and damp, the scent of good rich earth in a good humour, making ready to grow things.  
  
And now it had arrived.  
  
Springtime.  
  
It was a day when warm rains had finally given way to blue sky. Colin was away with his father in London, and old Ben Weatherstaff was still in bed with his rheumatics, but since before sunrise, Mistress Mary and the animal charmer Dickon had been busily working in what everyone still called the secret garden even though it was no longer a secret to anyone.  
  
Mary had been digging and pulling weeds and listening to Dickson’s cheerful whistling.   
  
Then she raised her head and stilled.   
  
Two brown rabbits were tucked beside a bush. One was atop the other, hind legs and fluffy white tail trembling, then the rabbit jumped off and circled ‘round and nudged its mate, who hopped twice and was quickly mounted again.   
  
Mary thought of Dickon, and not just because the rabbits’ noses quivered as his did.  
  
“Eh!” said Dickon behind her. “I warrant that’s been goin’ on in th’ same way since th’ world began.”   
  
“Do you ever think you’re a rabbit, Dickon?” Mary asked without taking her eyes from the furry animals, which had separated briefly only to join again with renewed frenzy.  
  
“Sometimes I think p’raps I am.” He chuckled. Then he caught her rapt expression and whispered in her ear, “I think p’rhaps, tha’ art, too, Miss Mary.”  
  
Mary blushed.   
  
“Th’ world’s all fair begun again this mornin’, it has. An’ it’s workin’ an’ hummin’ an’ scratchin’ an’ pipin’ an’ nest-buildin’ and’ breathin’ out scents,” said Dickon, admiring the garden and Mary.  
  
As Mary listened, she put her hands on her chest and was surprised to herself panting as if she’d been running.   
  
“Oh, Dickon!”  
  
“Kiss me like tha’ do th’ crocuses an’ us’ll find a tender spot for our rabbitin’.”  
  
Mary turned her head and raised her lips to his.  
  
The kiss was as sweet as a mignonette casting its delicate breathe upon the breeze.  
  
They ran from one part of the garden to another and, finding so many wonders, new green points and swelling leafbuds, almost forgot their aim.  
  
But at last they settled on a patch of newly turned good rich earth.  
  
Mary fell upon it at once, rolling onto her back and breathing in its scent.   
  
Dickon fell beside her. He thought of Mary much the same as he thought of all the wild things he cared for, and his nature bid him move gentle and speak low.  
  
“Miss Mary…”  
  
When Soot alit upon a nearby branch and squawked, Dickon shooed the rook away saying,  
  
“Us ‘s got our way o’ thinkin’ and doin’ things an’ a body had better not meddle.”  
  
The dark bird fled at once.  
  
While Mary was removing her boots and reaching up under her dress and stripping off her underclothing, Dickson jumped up and headed towards the babbling fountain that Ben Weatherstaff had installed last summer and which everyone, including Mary’s uncle, a week earlier had taken a turn in helping to clear of winter debris.  
  
When Mary was bare beneath her dress, she braced herself on two arms, her hands buried the soil. Dickson fell beside her once more, and when his fingers brushed between her legs, she started.   
  
“Cold,” said Dickon, “but not for long. Show us thy nest, pretty missel thrush.”  
  
Mary reached up and caressed his tousled, rusty-red hair and told him how much she loved his turned-up nose and his red cheeks and his round eyes, which were the colour of the sky over the moor, and his big mouth.   
  
“I likes thee wonderful, Mary,” he answered. He brought his lips to hers in a long, slow kiss. “Tha’ smells like th’ wind from the moor. Cool an’ warm an’ sweet.”   
  
The hand beneath Mary’s dress never ceased its petting. His touch was light and teasing, and soon Mary’s body ached for more. She spread her knees wider and jerked her hips up.  
  
Dickon sang softly,  
  
 _Mistress Mary  
Not a bit contrary  
How does thy garden grow?_  
  
And with each word, his fingertip circled her, and with each mention of a flower, it probed.  
  
 _With silver bells_  
And cockle shells   
And marigold all in a row.  
  
His finger was inside her now. His thumb was rubbing, stroking her own fur as tenderly as he would that of a rescued lamb or fox cub.  
  
Mary suddenly wanted nothing more but to be clad in naught but the spring sunshine and the aroma of the garden. The garden’s perfume was of earth and flowers and Dickon, Dickon smelling as he always did, of heather and grass and leaves, almost as if he were made of them.  
  
“Oh, Dickon, Dickon. I’m so happy I can scarcely breathe!”  
  
“Breathe, Mary,” he urged.  
  
Mary breathed, but she would’ve much preferred to lie back and sink into the earth and be sown like a seed and tended dearly and coaxed to life by Dickon’s hands.  
  
Mary’s eyelids drooped until her gaze rested on the bud of a pink rose. She had the queer notion that she was the rose, but the sweetness inside her was growing from green shoot to bud to blossom in a matter of moments. She cried out and clenched ‘round Dickon’s stem of hand and spilled her petals all about him.  
  
He gently withdrew his hand and kissed her lips once more.  
  
“Rabbitin’?” he asked hungrily, his eyes travelling down her body and back up to her face.   
  
She mimicked his sweeping gaze until she spotted his tented trousers.  
  
“It’s wick,” he said, nodding at his lap.  
  
“As wick as wick can be! I’m glad it’s wick!” Mary cried and rolled over onto the soil.  
  
Soon they were like the rabbits. Dickon nuzzled and licked at Mary’s neck as he filled her from behind.   
  
Mary found it all strange and wonderful.   
  
She heard a familiar chirp and, with astonishment, looked up to see the robin.   
  
“Us won’t trouble thee,” said Dickon to the robin. “Us is near bein’ wild things ourselves. Us is nestbuildin’ too, bless thee. Look out tha’ doesn’t tell on us.” He sighed in Mary’s ear. “Aye, m’ missel thrush, us’re like this garden, Mary, runnin’ wild, an’ swingin’ an’ catchin’ hold o’ each other.”   
  
Dickon’s body became taut. He groaned.   
  
Mary breathed, pressed her face into the soil, and kissed it as she had once kissed the purple and gold crocuses.   
  
Dickon collapse atop her.   
  
Mary turned her head to see the robin’s dew-bright black eye still upon them.  
  
“I’ve a bit o’ bacon rind for tha’,” mumbled Dickon to the robin as he shifted and rubbed Mary’s thighs.   
  
The robin was satisfied with the offering. He didn’t very much mind the creatures doing their mating, as pitifully clumsy as it was, in his realm as long as they remembered upon whose hospitality they depended and returned soon enough to their task of turning over the soil and affording their host his pick of the plumpest worms.  
  
After all, it was springtime, and they weren’t the only creatures wanting to celebrate.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
